


Paralysed

by Scrunyuns



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Dream Sex, Dreams and Nightmares, I took a few artistic liberties with the nature of sleep paralysis here, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, One-Sided Attraction, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Rejection, Religion, Sleep Paralysis, Toxic Masculinity, UST, a tiny helping of Hickey/Crozier (sorta), because somehow it is everyone else’s fault, fair warning: irving is pretty frolloesque here, i.e. he is Horny and he is Angry About It, nocturnal emissions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:55:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27168268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrunyuns/pseuds/Scrunyuns
Summary: Hickey has infiltrated Lieutenant Irving’s dreams.
Relationships: Cornelius Hickey/Lt John Irving, mentions of Hickey/Crozier, mentions of Hickey/Gibson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 18





	Paralysed

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by my own bouts of sleep paralysis, here’s a quick fic about Awkward Virgin John Irving and his nocturnal gay boners. Hope u enjoy~

_Lord, will I ever know peace?_

It is well past midnight. Lieutenant John Irving tosses and turns on his bunk, getting the linens twisted about his legs. The friction this provides is- no. No, he shall not succumb so easily to his base needs. He is a _man,_ not a beast.

But it’s not merely his body that calls out for relief; his mind is plagued, as well. Wicked demons fly overhead, urging him to sin. They conjure up images of two pale and delicate hands roving over his body, of bright blue eyes gazing up at him while a pair of pink lips engulf his-

_No._

The lieutenant prays and prays and prays until he finally, mercifully, finds sleep.

—

The following morning brings new horrors: His long underwear is wet and sticky at the front.

_Not again..._

It seems he shall have to do his own laundry today, come evening. He shall make up some white lie about needing hot water for a bath, then get the stain out himself, lest it be known among the men that Lieutenant John Irving is prone to nocturnal emissions.

Just as well; he has not been very keen to face Mr. Gibson’s lately, repentant of his crimes though the man may be. Before, when he had noticed the steward’s rumpled shirt or a mysterious stain on his trousers, Irving had pushed his suspicions to the very back of his mind and simply carried on. 

But now he _knew._ Gibson and Hickey had thrust this terrible knowledge upon his unwilling mind, and now he was helpless against it.

Lieutenant Irving has no doubt Mr. Gibson is reformed, or at least _intent_ on being reformed. However, the mere sight of the man serves as a reminder as to the reason why reformation was needed in the first place. The sin in itself, ever present in his mind… the notion of it coils around Irving’s neck like a python, slowly suffocating him.

Worse still, he later happens upon Mr. Hickey during his day-to-day.

“Morning, Lieutenant.”

Irving does not return the greeting. For once, Hickey has not said nor done anything to vex him, he had even saluted - but all the same, a great wave of anger wells within the lieutenant. He feels warm suddenly, like he’s overheating inside his coat.

 _That insolent face,_ Irving thinks to himself. _How I’d like to smack it. How I’d like to grab him and give him a good shake. Perhaps a few strikes with the back of my hand. Whack the Devil out of him._

But wrath is a deadly sin, as well.

Irving turns on his heel and starts walking, not stopping until he’s reached the far end of the ship. 

—

Sleep never comes easy anymore. And it seems that the less rest he gets, falling asleep becomes even harder still.

Lieutenant Irving is so very tired, but he simply has too much to think about, far too much. The captain’s alcoholism, their predicament, his position, how there is so much sin all around him, not to mention _within_ him… and then there is something intangible; a hunger, of sorts. But for _what,_ he doesn’t know. The feeling is reminiscent of a dream where he’s running and running and running and never getting to where he needs to go, except he’s awake for it all. Maddening.

Each night he prays and prays well into the wee hours of the morning, until his eyelids start getting too heavy to bear and his prayers turn into unintelligible mumbling, before finally becoming snores.

But on this night, he never reaches that deep sleep. Tonight he only gets to the part where the dreams start appearing, where he’s still half awake and having the most vivid and bizarre visions.

And now they’re accompanied by a sense of dread, a threat looming.

_Oh no. Lord, have mercy on me… not this again._

His ears start ringing - softly at first, and then louder and louder until he thinks his head might well explode.

The lieutenant knows exactly what’s coming next.

Panicked, Irving wants nothing more than to jump up from his bunk - but he is stuck, paralysed, held down by an invisible force. It is as if someone is sitting on his chest, someone of a terrible weight.

He closes his eyes, waiting for the horror to pass. It should do, it always does. He just has to be patient, just has to ride it out.

Suddenly, the ringing stops.

_Praise be._

Now the only sounds are those of laboured breaths. At first he thinks they must be his own, but he eventually realizes that they are too far away for them to be coming from himself.

Slowly, he dares to open his eyes.

As he blinks in the dark, adjusting to the dim light, what he finds staring back at him are two curious eyes. They almost look dead, milky white in their sunken sockets, but they’re watching him with great interest.

Atop Irving’s chest is perched a pallid, underweight man. The demon smiles at him; a wide, sharp-toothed grin.

The wretched creature puts a hand to Irving’s cheek, gently, making the lieutenant shiver; the demon’s skin is cool to the touch. He can only look on in horror as the ghostly hand trails down his neck, further down to his chest, catching at his nipple, down to his belly, plays with the soft hairs there before following that trail down, down, down…

The demon leans in for a kiss.

Lieutenant Irving wants to cry out, but his throat is as useless as the rest of his body.

But then, just as quickly as it had taken hold, the demon releases him. The vision of the pale man disappears in the blink of an eye.

Lieutenant Irving, back in control of his own body at last, bolts upright in his bed with a hoarse scream.

While his hands scramble for the crucifix around his neck and the Bible under his pillow, his tongue scrambles for holy words. They get caught in his dry throat.

—

The wardroom meeting the next morning is a blur, the voices of the captain and the other officers oddly distant. Lieutenant Irving stares blankly into his cup of tea; last night’s trials had shaken his fundament.

He has had these nightly bouts of paralysis before, whenever he’s had too many nights of troubled sleep in a row. And though it had been immensely terrifying every time, he’s always come out the other end of it with nought but a bit of a fright… but last night was different.

All those times before, he hadn’t had a demon sat on his chest. He’s felt its weight, certainly, but never before had he _seen it._

And he knows that demon, too. He’d recognize that Devil’s red hair anywhere.

—

Every night that follows, Lieutenant Irving dreads the return of the demon. But it never comes, and Irving is grateful to his Lord for that. His dreams, however, they only get worse; they seem to just grow more and more unholy with each passing night.

After Cornelius Hickey is lashed, the dreams become downright unbearable.

Unbidden images of Christ on the cross mingle with those of the petty officer, nude and spread out, tied to a table. Irving hears breathless moans, sees trickles of crimson running down a smooth, muscular thigh… he can taste copper on his tongue…

Another dream - or nightmare, rather - is one where he comes upon Hickey in the captain’s quarters, on his knees in front of Crozier. The caulker’s mate has that exact same taunting, impudent smirk on his face as when, in waking life only some months past, Irving had come upon him in that very room.

But in the lieutenant’s dream, the two Irishmen are not sharing a libation from a cut glass under civilized pretenses; here Hickey is servicing the captain with his mouth while Crozier guzzles his whiskey straight from the bottle. With the captain grunting and thrusting into that eager mouth, and Hickey with his hand down his own trousers, they make a frightful scene.

Then suddenly, Irving’s subconscious casting all semblance of logic aside, it is _he_ in the captain’s stead. He sits in Crozier’s chair now, watches himself rutting into Hickey’s mouth as the little sodomite moans around his girth.

And then, Hickey bites down.

Lieutenant Irving wakes up in a cold sweat.

—

Cornelius Hickey naked in his bed. Cornelius Hickey kissing his neck. Cornelius Hickey touching himself. Cornelius Hickey sucking his fingers. Cornelius Hickey riding his cock. Cornelius Hickey slitting his throat.

On and on it goes.

Lieutenant Irving knows he is being tested, but he has precious little in the way of control when in the realm of dreams.

_The Lord must know this, surely._

Such is the small comfort that he tries to provide himself with in the mornings, when he once again awakes from a disturbing dream and finds himself embarrassed.

—

  
  


_“Carnivale is here! Everyone should be all cheer!”_

He thinks he can hear him now, Sir John. Not much to be cheerful for at the present time, of course - least of all for poor Sir John, God rest his soul - but Irving tries his best to make merry.

_A good grog… a couple, perhaps, should set my mood right._

Naturally, it quickly becomes more than just a couple. And all the while he can see Cornelius Hickey at the corner of his eye, slinking along the margins, scanning and surveying the crowd... up to no good, as per usual.

He is dressed in all black with a long overcoat that, unlike the bulky and ill-fitting uniforms of the lower ranks, accentuates his lean figure. With a tall tophat resting on his head, the filthy little sinner could almost pass for a member of the gentry. An offensive sight, it is.

When Hickey finally steals away somewhere, Irving cannot help himself.

The lieutenant finishes up his jolly tune and his fifth cup of rum for the evening, and goes looking for Hickey. Perhaps he will catch him in a tryst again; he saw how that scoundrel was talking to young Private Pilkington earlier… coercing the poor lad, no doubt.

But when he finally finds him, beyond walls upon walls of heavy canvas, he sees that no other man - not Pilkington nor any other - has followed Hickey. None but himself.

They’re alone now.

“Lieutenant?”

Hickey looks surprised - innocent, even. But Irving knows better.

“Take that off.”

The petty officer continues to look bewildered.

“The hat,” Irving hisses. “Take it off.”

He is aware that he’s slurring, but no matter; he is still Hickey’s commanding officer and his words are still law, even when they’re coming out all muddled.

“Take it off, Mr. Hickey. Now. That’s an order.”

Hickey is too slow to respond, so the lieutenant steps forward and knocks the hat off his head.

The young sailor is taken aback by this, jaw set and brow furrowed, but he doesn’t move to pick up his hat, nor to attack the lieutenant. He simply stares back at the him, appalled. As if it’s Irving who is being an affront to _him_.

“Look at you,” the lieutenant spits, “walking around dressed as a... a proper gentleman. Who do you think you are?”

Hickey almost laughs out loud.

“It’s the nature of fancy dress, Sir. Or do you consider yourself a proper angel, with your wings and halo?”

_The gall..!_

Irving grabs the insubordinate little filth by his lapels and shoves him backwards, into some wooden crates.

“I’ve had enough of your lip, Mr. Hickey,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “I’ve had enough of your backtalk, your snide remarks, your laziness, your- your provocative behavior-“

“Provocative?” Hickey asks, incredulous. “How do I provoke you, Sir?”

As though he doesn’t know. As though he isn’t one hundred percent deliberate with his every word, with the way he moves and the way he talks and the way his eyes seem to look right through you.

_God damn him._

“You… you _lure_ other men. Good men, honest men. Godly men.”

“Godly men like you, Sir?”

With this, Hickey makes a point of looking down.

When Irving finally takes the cue and looks down at himself, he realizes with abject horror that he is pressing up against Hickey’s thigh - and he is hard. Rock hard.

_Lord, let the ground open up beneath my feet and swallow me whole._

“You make a hypocrite of yourself, Lieutenant.”

Hickey’s voice is soft as it ever was, but it still carries venom. When he shoves Irving away, the lieutenant lets him.

Keeping a wary eye on Irving while he straightens his clothes, Hickey’s withering gaze does not allow room for any retort that the lieutenant might’ve had. Irving is speechless either way; so mortified and shameful is he, that he now can do nothing but stare at the ground in silence, blushing profusely.

Hickey bends down to salvage his tophat. Ever so casual, he brushes the snowflakes off and puts it back on his head.

“Plus,” Hickey adds. “You reek of the sauce.”

He pushes past Irving and leaves through the canvas drapes.

Long after he is gone, his words remain with Irving. And while one would think this should’ve caused him to soften, it’s rather the opposite; the humiliation burns, but it burns in such a way that keeps his blood boiling, keeps his cock aching.

_The grog has weakened my mind,_ he tells himself as he finally relents and takes himself in hand.

He hopes against hope that for once, the Lord’s watchful eye might be busy elsewhere.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!


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